The Storm
by Smidy
Summary: Beginning of Play - In the wild, unruly and blistering moments of an Abigail storm, everyone was thrown and stretched and battered into a meek submission.


_AN: Just something I had to write over the holidays for English. Hope it's ok :)_

* * *

Abigail Williams had ever been a precocious child. And determined. And resourceful. And clever.

When, in her youth, her spineless parents had forbid their child from partaking in a certain activity, or from performing a certain action, or acquiring a certain object that had taken control of her fancy, Abigail's sweet eyes turned to black coals that burned retribution and the promise of vengeance. Her hair, instead of flowing prettily in long waves down her back, stuck to her skull and whipped and twisted, suddenly seeming to cling to and accentuate the angular and blunt expanses of her face. Her hands, so skillful and light when employed in stitchery or drawing or any menial household chore, became deathly rigid, clenching and relaxing in an unsettling pattern – reminiscent, thought any bystander, of how one would wring an invisible neck. And her movements, normally so fluid and dainty, scratched themselves into existence in fiery, reckless movements of blind fury.

In the wild, unruly and blistering moments of an Abigail storm, her parents, as wispy and inconstant as worn handkerchiefs, would be thrown and stretched and battered into a meek submission.

No one in Salem truly knew just exactly _how_ both Abigail's parents had died. However, when Goody Osbourne had reprimanded her for laughing in prayer and was promptly lacerated by a sharp blast of the storm's tempest, the villagers began to formulate some theories.

* * *

Whilst she grew, so also, did her tactics evolve. By her 17th birthday, she had wit enough to note that varying circumstances and contexts called for varying approaches which, in turn, may elicit varying responses. The impetus was the same, as would be, she assured herself smugly, the outcome, however the style in which she achieved this inevitable victory must transform. At the time of these revelations, this 'victory' had been the acquisition of John Proctor's affections and the spurning of his cold, unfeeling wife.

Anger and rage and ruthlessness, she knew, would not move John Proctor, for he was capable of returning them in almost equal measures, as unwavering and stoic and impenetrable as a fortress. Abigail was aware of his weakness however, no being was without one, and thus, she compensated for that which was severely lacking in his life – adoration, sweetness and love. She doted on him, performed all his ordered tasks with an outstanding efficiency, giggled and blushed in his presence and made it no secret that he was her favourite. Outwardly, pleasantness, naivety and docility set and fooled like an indiscernible mask, whilst lust, pride and manipulation surged blackly beneath.

Goody Proctor, however, was immune to Abigail's masquerade and, from the moment she had stepped over the hearth, she sensed her husband was a marked man. Elizabeth stood at the fire and watched the embers slowly dwindle, cursing the younger girl and cursing herself. Abigail was more compliant than she, more loving, more remarkable, and more brazen. More willing to momentarily sacrifice aspects of herself to achieve her ends. She knew Abigail would use these advantages to ensnare John, to steal him away, to undermine his goodness and to belittle Elizabeth.

She knew this, and yet she did nothing.

From somewhere in the direction of the barn, uproarious laughter erupted, John's deep guffaws mingling with Abigail's feminine giggles.

The fire finally died.

John Proctor, for all his initial façade of strength of will and character, did not take long to submit to her. Lightning flashed in Abigail's eyes when he did, and thunder rolled in her ears. In her mind, she was running, skipping, shrieking with triumph over a grey, desolate Proctor farm, her storm raging overhead.

* * *

Now, Abigail likes to think that somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, she knew that the dancing in the woods would only bring trouble. She likes to think that, while, undoubtedly, she _was_ involved, she was also in command of her proper mind throughout the entire event. That she wasn't burning up with rejection or turned wild from confusion and denial or plagued and tormented by the unfamiliar and creeping feeling of defeat. That her mind wasn't a haze of half remembrances that swirled and dipped mistily as if mimicking the girls' own movements, that the infernal, deafening buzzing and banging and cracking in her ears didn't cause her to snap for one moment from the splintering fastenings of sanity.

That John Proctor did _not_ beat her.

Then, however, after she had drunk the potion given to her by the Barbados woman and had fled from discovery, crashing blindly through the forest's branches and bracken, desperately trying to evade the noise, all fell quiet. At that moment, for the first time in her existence, Abigail was unhinged, unorganized and uncertain. And afraid. Terrifyingly so.

* * *

In the morning, when Betty wouldn't wake and the villagers worked themselves into a frenzy, stalking the confines of their self-inflicted cages and nurturing the tension over a fire of superstition, ignorance and the aching need for explanations, Abigail's fear heightened and clawed at her throat and eyes.

Reverend Hale, an expert in such supernatural matters, was brought in to assuage the villagers' needs for some sort of action and desperation swept through Abigail's mind, uprooting her confidence and influence and safety. A plan was imperative. She needed to pre-empt attack with an attack of her own, divert devastation _by_ devastation.

Her mind was a flurry of half-ideas, thrust around until they blurred together into an unintelligible white smudge. She was sinking, _dying_ in the quicksand of her situation, fingers scrabbling above her for any pole, hand or tree root of inspiration, of salvation. She was searching, searching, searching. She knew the penalties for admitting to summoning spirits, knew the tendencies of small villages to cry witch at any inkling, any excuse.

She knew that they'd _enjoy_ crying witch on her.

She gazed at Reverend Parris, at the motionless Betty and at Reverend Hale whose questions sharpened into points which needled and punctured her, always pushing and poking and prodding until… Tituba.

Lighting cracked through her mind and thunder boomed in her ears and a dark, ominous blackness clouded her eyes. The Barbados woman sees, and shudders. The girl in front of her is not Abigail anymore, or rather it is, the true form, the mask cast off. The storm points and shrieks, voice howling like the wind, "I never sold myself! I'm a good girl! I'm a proper girl! She made me do it! She made Betty do it!"

The success is instantaneous, Reverends Hale and Parris round, startled, on Tituba and the heat and condemnation of their gazes is cast mercifully off Abigail. In her mind, she is giggling, laughing, cackling with relief and joy. Gleeful, mad, but now protected, saved from the hysteria.

Saved from catastrophe.


End file.
